


Complex Wounds

by alcyone (Alcyone301)



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:12:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyone301/pseuds/alcyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But I am sorry to tell you, sir, I am very sorry to tell you, the Doctor has copped it.”<br/>-- Tom Pullings, <i>The Ionian Mission</i>, ch. 2.</p><p>Inspired by feroxargentea’s comment that Stephen’s wounds resemble those of Oedipus; she is responsible for the title as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complex Wounds

Struck down, half his scalp stripped off, both feet pierced by a single wicked elm splinter nearly as long as his arm, Stephen was only semiconscious as he was repaired by Mr Lewis. When he recovered his wits somewhat, he struggled to sit up, demanding to know what of the battle, the butcher’s bill, where was –

He was pressed back into the cot, which he realised belatedly was Jack’s, by its owner’s broad warm hand, and assured that all was well, the _Jemmapes_ had fled, and they were proceeding under all plain sail towards their rendezvous with Admiral Thornton and the Mediterranean fleet.

Peering at Jack – every motion of his brow pulling at what his questing hand discovered to be a large crescent of sutures extending from above his left ear to the right asterion – he saw no signs of dissimulation on that broad, florid, scarred face. Indeed, he had rarely seen anything but the most open and frank affection there, delight or even effusion in music, the stern remote majesty of command, or an unholy fierce joy in battle – nothing more covert than an ineffectual evasiveness, a civilised unwillingness to offend, ever marred the simple truth shining from those blue eyes. 

He was obliged, therefore, to concede that there was no immediate need for him to do anything but heal, and he therefore called for laudanum – the dose provided in the orlop was ludicrously inadequate – and attempted to find a reasonably comfortable position. Jack’s efforts to help being recognised for what they were, expressions of concern, and his own temper not yet soured by pain and boredom, Stephen reassured him that he was as well as he could be, and that all he required was rest; water and his case-bottle in reach, the scuttles open to the air. 

‘I’ll leave you to sleep, then, and see how the repairs progress, brother.’ He heard Jack hailing Killick from the dining-cabin, and the bottle being brought presently, he drank off three or four ounces of the blessed laudanum and composed his mind; listening to the various sounds of the repairs aloft and the overset cannon being righted blurring, receding, he sank under its grateful, familiar influence.

He was pinned by his feet, the pain intense. It was dark, though not cold. The ground under him was dry, harsh dirt; he smelled pine needles. He could hear the wind, branches thrashing. He opened his eyes, but saw nothing. He sought a presence that was not there, warm, soft, a smell - flowers, milk, a woman? - an embrace. He was hungry, but did not wail – had already learned it was hopeless. He was afraid. The darkness and void was larger than he dared recognise; he could bear the emptiness his hands could reach - his feet were still immobilised and he could not remember why - but no more. He could not think about what might surround this solitary darkness. He waited, nursing a spark of hope for he knew not what. Light, perhaps.

 

He woke still in the grip of his dream, feeling the fear and the helplessness, and wondered at its power, fading as it was; he could not remember the last time his heart hurt for anything like this. Seeking a cause, he remembered, vaguely, being on deck, unable to move his feet, his vision obscured by blood and hair, and something else. 

He felt moisture on his face. Slowly opening his eyes, he was confused to see Jack sitting by the cot, dipping a cloth in a basin by the bedside, wringing pinkish water from it, his face calm and thoughtful.

Turning back to see him awake, Jack’s face lighted up, lifting Stephen’s heart with it. ‘There you are, Stephen. How do you feel? How is your head, my dear?’ 

‘I am well enough, Jack, as I have said. The wounds do not trouble me unduly. Do not fuss, I beg.’

‘That is good,’ Jack said quietly, wiping his temples and cheeks, removing dried and fresh blood, ‘because you have been uncommon restless, fighting with the blanket, sweating, you know.’ He forebore to mention the quiet little cries of grief. 

Killick entered with a fresh bowl and cloth, and setting them down with a crash, glared savagely at the cot; grumbling in his wicked way, he yanked at the tangled bedding, straightening, tucking, leaving its occupant undisturbed and with the beginnings of a smile. He took up the stained cloth and the cold bowl and with a muttered threat involving soup, and a significant look at Jack, indicating the dining cabin with a jerk of his chin and a word that sounded strangely like ‘comfort’, he left the cabin, banging the door behind him. 

Jack shared a brief amused glance with Stephen, and dipped and wrung out the fresh cloth. There was a pause during which he resumed his careful attentions to his friend’s blood-soaked head, avoiding the huge curving line of sutures. 

‘Jack, what was your mother like?’ 

‘I don’t remember her well,’ he replied, unhesitatingly. ‘She died when I was quite young. I remember what she smelled like, her voice, and I have a sort of idea of her face, her real face, not the portraits - very pink and white, you know, bright eyes - and what it felt like for her to be gone – by implication what it must have been – but it’s absurd to dwell on it, you know, for a grown man. Why do you ask?’ 

‘I ask because I was just now dreaming of my own mother, I believe, which must have been stimulated by the similarity of my situation to that of Oedipus.’ 

‘You were dreaming of Babbington’s cartel?’

‘Now Jack, why should I dream of it? Though sure I have the fondest memories of our crossing in her. No, I was thinking of the son of the King of Thebes.’ 

‘Oh dear, Stephen, I had no idea,’ said Jack, with real concern. 

Stephen, exasperated, replied, ‘Jack, for all love, I am not responsible for my father’s death nor yet do I desire my mother – or not more than all men do, I believe. I meant, my situation was his, in that my feet were pinned, just now, as his were when he, a helpless infant, was abandoned on a mountainside, hoping for his mother to come; and so I dreamed of being abandoned.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Jack, embarrassed. ‘I thought .. well, but you know you’ll never be abandoned, don’t you, old Stephen?’ He wrung out the cloth once more, then, ‘I have dreams about my own mother, you know, or I did.’ 

‘Do you, though? Is she really there - that is, do you see her?’ 

‘Well, in the dream I do, in a way, but not as you might think – it was very vivid, I dreamed it several times when I first went to sea and I remember it yet. It’s just a landscape, a pool among some low hills, at dusk, very grey, very silent and still, and two deer come down to it, only instead of drinking one of them gently pulls a small child’s body from the water, not dead you know, but not really alive either. She lets him drip for a while and then puts him back. The deer are so lovely, so graceful, and it’s their kindness to the child that makes me think of her ... it sounds very foolish spoken aloud, you know, but it’s a very peaceful sort of dream, a little sad perhaps.’ 

After a brief pause: ‘Sure, it’s a dream to remember, the gentle caring deer a comfort, I believe, to a lost child.’ Stephen privately considered the homophonous deer/dear; Jack of all people would make word play unconsciously. He wondered, a little uneasily, about the pines on the hillside of his own dream. 

‘What was your mother like, old Stephen? Is her loss all you remember?’ 

‘I have no idea – do not remember her at all. There is a painting of her at Lleida, but I doubt you remember it – you were so ill when we were there. She was pretty, very young, dark eyes, dark hair; she had the appearance of someone who expected life to be joyous, full of interest, not disgrace and death alas. I was just now dreaming, not of her, but of an absence so fundamental, it might almost be hers. In the dream I was bound by the feet, small, naked, ignorant, helpless, but I don’t think I ever felt that way as a child. I was never abandoned, far from it – I had many relations, aunts and uncles, cousins, even my grandparents on occasion, who all took care of me from time to time – I did not want for food or shelter, nor indeed for love and fostering; my godfather, en Ramón, was all a father could be, when I was able to be with him.’ 

‘Oh, Stephen,’ whispered Jack, moved; he laid a gentle hand upon Stephen’s shoulder and squeezed. 

‘Oh, Jack, leave off,’ replied his friend, crossly. ‘I am not a heartbroken child. Nor am I irreparably damaged, now – I do not require cossetting. I shall do very well.’ Jack smiled to hear the familiar asperity. 

‘Well,’ he said, rising, ‘since your wits are restored, and your recovery assured, I’ll go back on deck and do my duty; and there’s a parson, Mr. Comfrey, here to do his duty, too. Jack smiled again, patted his shoulder, and left. Stephen scowled; presently there was a gentle knock and Mr Comfrey entered with a prim look of conscious virtue, certain sign of an insufferable homily to come. Stephen sighed and, making sure his case-bottle was within reach, resigned himself to at least the appearance of patience.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters are the property of the much-regretted Patrick O’Brian and his heirs, and are borrowed with profound respect and love.
> 
> Beta by the forbearing alltoseek.


End file.
